Septimus in Heaven
by eventide unicorn
Summary: Three standalone stories about Prince Septimus of Stormhold trying to get into heaven...
1. 1a: Retribution

Septimus in Heaven 1: Beating at Heaven's Door

4

_**Retribution (Septimus in Heaven 1)**_

The admissions' angel sat at his desk just outside the pearly gates, trying his best not to pre-cognate. He knew it was going to be a good day, but he preferred to wait and find out why as it happened.

His communicator shell hummed at him, and he slid it to the centre of the desk and looked at it. Hmm, the day was beginning. The shell's other half belonged to his nemesis down in the place of the damned...

He turned the shell over and spoke into its shimmering inside,

"Yes?"

"Oh Satan! Oh _Satan_! He's breaking _loose_, he's breaking _LOOSE_..."

"Trouble? Dear, dear, what a shame."

"_**OH SATAN**_..."

The angel slid the shell a little further away. Even angels had eardrums.

"Did you want something?" he asked.

"What _is_ he? He shouldn't be able to _do_ that!"

The angel glanced at the mighty tome that lay open in front of him.

"He's from Faerie, you nincompoop. Human chains won't hold him."

It was unclear if his nemesis had heard...

"Oh SATAN, Oh SATAN! He's killing _everyone_!"

Indeed, the angel could hear a lot of screaming, scrambling, smashing, and squelching in the background.

"OH-SATAN-HE'S-COMING!" shrieked the demon. From the way the words were muffled it seemed that the communicator shell was now clutched to his chest like a rather calcified teddy bear.

"The louder you shout, the less likely he is to find you," pointed out the angel facetiously. It was lost on the demon.

"OH SATAN OH SATAN OH SATAN," there was a crash like that of a desk being turned over.. "OH SATAN OH..." and something that the angel's experienced ears recognised as the sound of a demon losing its head. In the literal way.

"Dear, dear," muttered the angel, turning the shell back over, "you're having a bad day, aren't you..." And you'll be too busy growing a new head for the next few weeks to nag me all the time... It _was_ a good day.

He consulted his book again, and before long came the sounds of someone running up the long, stone spiral staircase that led up into the cloud-top meadow. When the person finally arrived, the angel saw that it was a lean man who moved lightly on his feet, brimful of wild energy. Dark hair blew in tangles around his face and his fierce golden eyes darted watchfully around the meadow. He was dressed all in black and looked generally somewhat the worse for wear. But bare blades glittered in both his hands; a long, wickedly curved sword in his right hand, a dagger in the left; and both were dripping with demon blood.

His gaze settled on the angel and he strode forward, exuding menace with every step. He came to a halt and the gory blade tip darted out to touch the angel's throat.

"Are you another filthy demon?" he demanded, "_are you_?"

"No," said the angel, unconcerned. Slight case of paranoia, here, he thought. Feathery wings, white robe, halo... sure, I look just like a demon.

"You want my fingernails, do you?" snarled the man, his eyes near berserk. He shook the dagger-clutching hand violently in the angel's direction, scattering drops of demon blood everywhere, and the angel saw that he had no fingernails left on that hand. Hmm, perhaps the paranoia was understandable...

"You want to _break_ things, do you?" raged on the dark figure, "I'll give you broken things..." Two of the fingers on that left hand were broken as well, the angel saw,

"I don't want to break anything," said the angel calmly.

The man drew in several deep breaths and finally seemed to see him properly for the first time.

"Right." he said in a slightly dazed tone. He looked around the meadow. It wasn't very large, and ended at the cloud edge on three sides. On the fourth side was a high shimmering wall with a gate in the middle. He took his sword away from the angel's throat and jabbed it at the gates.

"What's in there?" he demanded.

"A quiet and peaceful place," said the angel rather significantly.

The man glanced at his broken left hand, and back at the stone staircase.

"That'll do me," he declared, and stepped forward determinedly.

"One moment," said the angel softly. And although he was just a slightly built angel with rather scruffy feathers and silly little round spectacles perched on his nose, the man paused and eyed him measuringly.

Almost, the angel thought, as though he knew about the flaming sword under the desk.

"Please sit," he said, gesturing to the chair that had just appeared.

The man sat, propping his booted feet up on the desk and fixing the angel with a interrogatory look.

"You can't go in," said the angel, "unless you deserve it."

The man's gaze fell on the book and he sat up rather abruptly, taking his feet off the desk.

"How does it look?" he asked, leaning forward as the angel peered at the tome, finger running down the page as he read. "Bearing in mind, of course, that I had a truly _awful_ father and a _terrible_ upbringing..."

"Hmm," said the angel, "well, I must say, Prince Septimus, you've improved things quite a lot just now..."

"Good," said the prince, making as though to rise and head for the gates again. The angel stopped him with an upraised finger.

"Ah. Ah," he said. "I said you've improved things. But you haven't evened things up. You've got a whole bishop to account for, you know."

Septimus winced and planted a bloody finger in the middle of the page.

"That was an accident. A complete accident, you've got that down, right?"

"The book has everything down, Prince Septimus," said the angel mildly.

"I could hardly admit how bad I felt about it in front of Primus," Septimus added in a very reasonable tone.

The angel glanced at the book and smiled a rather patient smile.

"The book has everything down," he repeated. Septimus leant forward and read, upside down,

- I could hardly admit how bad I felt about it in front of Primus, - Prince Septimus said ingeniously, hoping that the implied remorse would help his case...

"Fine," he snapped, "he was a double dealing coward who had it coming. I'm being honest, can I go in now?"

"No, you can't go in," said the angel quietly. "You still belong down below."

Septimus's face lost some of its colour and he sank back into the chair.

"No," he snarled weakly, "I'm not going back there. Never," his knuckles were white on his sword hilt and he looked down at it suddenly,

"Wait," he said, "If I sneak back down and polish a few more off... Then things will be evened up..." Again it seemed he would rise, and again the angel stopped him.

"No, I really wouldn't do that it I were you," he said. "You won't take them by surprise and they'll be ready for you this time. You won't get away again."

Septimus sat back in his chair and was silent for a moment.

"Why are you telling me that?" he asked. "I thought you just said I would have to go back."

"I said that you belong down there. But we want you up here, you know. We want everyone up here if it can possibly be arranged. You do get full marks for effort..." he added, eyeing the bloody sword. "You're quite a challenging case, though, I must say," he mused. He read the book again for a while.

"I don't know," he said at last. "Perhaps you'll just have to go back down..."

"No," whispered Septimus, wild eyed, "No! What do I have to do? What do I have to _do_? Do you want me to _beg_?"

He stared at the angel, his eyes filled with fiercely suppressed fear and his composure clearly strained near breaking point. It was painful to see so strong a man so very frightened, and the angel's face softened.

"No, don't be silly," he said softly. "Perhaps..." he picked up another, smaller book and opened that. "Well, there might be a way. We have an opening... you could work to even things up, then go in. What do you think?"

The gaze the prince returned was heavy with suspicion and ruthlessly suppressed hope,

"Are you playing with me?" he asked in a tone of rather grim despair.

"Playing with you?" said the angel. "Why, that would be _cruel_. Of course not."

"Then," replied Septimus warily, "yes... I mean, what is it? The opening?"

"Let's see," said the angel, consulting the little book again, "position open for an angel; or technically an acting angel, which is what you'd be;" he interjected, "anyway, for an Angel of Retribution: Demon Department, how does that sound?"

"Retribution?" echoed Septimus, "_Demons_?" His eyes burned. "Oh, I'll retribute your demons for you," he said. "And you can add them all up in there..." he poked the book emphatically.

"But _witches_," he added, "_those_ I'll do for _free_."

"Good," said the angel, and held out the small book. "Sign there, please..."

He did not offer a pen, but a prince of Stormhold could recognise a supernatural contract when he saw one, or this prince could. Septimus squeezed the tip of one of his nail-less fingers hard, and let a single drop of blood fall onto the parchment.

"Right," said the angel briskly, putting the book away. "Through that little door, they'll get you kitted out."

Septimus stood up.

"Do I get wings?" he inquired.

The angel eyed the edge of the cloud and the expanse of sky beyond,

"They do rather come in handy," he said.

"Indeed," said Septimus and strode towards the little door in the wall. He reached it and glanced over his shoulder,

"Do they come in black?" he asked.

_Corinna Turner_


	2. 1b: Redemption

Redemption (A sequel to Retribution)

_**Redemption (A sequel to Retribution)**_

The heavenly mews were to be found inside the walls of heaven. They went all the way around, one roost after another, every seven roosts housing a full legion. To enter heaven's wall was to enter a roost. Each had two nesting halls, male and female, with a passage between the two leading from one door to the other; the door into heaven, and the door into the sky outside. The nesting halls themselves most closely resembled a cathedral, if a cathedral's side aisles were to be filled up, tier upon tier, floor to ceiling, with nest spaces. The central part of the hall was taller, with windows along its length at the very top, just below the rafters. Or what were known as the 'rafters', the rafters in question being huge beams that held up the roof. Each angel had their own nest space. Acting angels tended to opt for an actual nest, the oval design of which was perfect for supporting the wings comfortably when sleeping; born angels were more likely to erect a simple perch, and sleep upright on that. Light streamed down from the high windows but barely reached the rush-strewn floor, making an airy, but dimly lit hall. This suited the angels very well. Flying around in the sky all day, in or out of heaven, was very bright, and the dimness soothed their eyes.

It was midday, such as there was day and night in heaven. The light from the heavenward windows of the mews waxed and waned with heaven's days, whilst the faster flicker of day-night-day-night from the sky side lead some roosts to put up curtains. For there was no true time in heaven, and heaven's days existed entirely for organisational purposes. It kept things simple. And in so far as they could be compared to Earth Time in any truly meaningful way whatsoever, one day in Heaven Time was one year in Earth Time, or E. T. as it was humorously designated. The organisational system that was Heaven Time was logically, physically, scientifically, metaphorically and even spiritually impossible. Those physicists and mathematicians that made it to heaven became gleefully engrossed in the study of the phenomenon; which had been being studied since the first physicists and mathematicians had come into existence and arrived there. There was a secret pool among the lower angels on how long it would take them to realise that the only way in which Heaven Time made any sense whatsoever was _theologically_. But none of the angels relaxing in the seventh roost of the seventh legion were worrying their heads about Heaven Time. Virtually the only comment an angel was ever likely to make on the phenomenon was along the lines of 'don't fret your head about it, my dear'. Or perhaps, if they were something a little less motherly, a retribution angel, for example; 'who cares, you don't really want it to be light all the time anyway, do you?" And the seventh roost of the seventh legion was largely occupied by retribution angels. Those who had drawn night duty were sleeping, others chatted quietly, played games, chess being a favourite, or sharpened weapons.

A handsome dark winged angel sat up in the rafters, lounging against a roof support. These had been intelligently designed to be just the right width to fit between an angel's wings, so his sleek black wings hung comfortably down on either side. He had a book in his hand, and was reading; for obvious reasons, the rafters were the domain of the readers. He was an acting angel, and comparatively new. Only one heaven year had passed since he had arrived in the roost; three hundred and sixty five years E. T. To the day, in fact. Prince Septimus was his name, and he was already known to be particularly good at his job.

Septimus turned the page. The mews' library fascinated him. There seemed to be no book that was not in it. You stood in front of the library shelf that was to be found by the door of each nesting hall, and you thought of the book you wanted... no matter if you couldn't remember author or title, the mere subject would be fine... and there was the book on the shelf. He'd entertained himself from time to time trying to stump the library... and had been quite disturbed to discover that there seemed to have been a book written somewhere, at some time or place, on absolutely _everything_, including all the very most bizarre things he could possibly think of. Usually, though, he put the library to better use, like now... He turned another page.

An angel hastened into the hall and looked around,

"Duty retribution angel?" he called.

An angel with russet hair and wings looked up,

"Septimus," he yelled, "tag, you're it, down you come..."

There was the sound of a book being placed on a beam, and a dark figure dropped vertically from the rafters, wings snapping out at the last moment with a dull _whump_, braking his descent so that he landed lightly on the balls of his feet.

"I'm down," he said dryly. "Let's have it."

The messenger angel handed him a long thin strip of paper,

"This just came through," he said.

Septimus read:

**Baby-snatching demon. The Grange, Wall, England. 9.10am E. T.**

Wall... That was so close to Stormhold...

"Are you alright?" asked the russet angel, clearly noticing his sudden preoccupation.

Septimus glanced at him distractedly,

"Hmm? Fine, Rufus, fine. I'll be off..."

He went out into the passage and turned towards the Sky door, the only one of the two that he had ever used. He met an angel just alighting,

"Hello, Septimus," she said, smiling.

The smile he returned was filled with genuine warmth,

"Hello, Selene," he replied. She had charcoal grey wings and hair, with just a shimmer of very pale gold. Her ears were pointed and feathered, and her feet long, bare, very flexible and delicately clawed, marking her as either a born angel, or a very, very old acting angel. She was an Angel of Death and one of the nicest people he'd ever met.

"I just brought up a little orphan boy," she told him contentedly. "He's with his ma and da now and he's so happy... This morning I had this spoilt merchant's son," she went on, "and he would _not_ cooperate." She gave her scythe an expressive shake, and spoke with a certain grim satisfaction, "but _that's_ sorted now. "Her tone brightened gain, "I've got to fetch an old chap later, and he's so very old, I think he'll be quite pleased to see me. Are you going out?"

Septimus nodded.

"Baby-snatching demon," he said, waving the paper vaguely.

Selene's eyes narrowed.

"Oooh, you deal with him, Septimus," she urged fiercely.

"Oh, I will," said Septimus softly, his eyes glittering. "Diced demon coming right up."

"Good," said Selene. "I can't stand those baby-snatchers. Poor things not even having someone like me to take them away, but having to be retrieved by force from those beastly... oooh, it makes me mad," she said in a slightly apologetic tone.

"I'll take care of it," Septimus assured her. "The little one will arrive safe and sound."

"Of course it will," said Selene, touching his cheek gently with one wing as she passed him. "I'm for some ambrosia," she added. "You go and sort out that wretched demon..."

Septimus bowed to her and went out the door.

He'd entered Earth Time when he came out of the Sky door and he consulted the old Earth watch he kept in the pocket of his long black coat. The coat in which he'd arrived had not lasted long. The wind had shredded it as he flew, and it had acquired a fair few rips and gashes while he was getting the hang of his work. One day he and Rufus had gone to wreak retribution on a group of demons who had been... well... They'd arrived back with a couple of demon hides apiece. Selene had been horrified, until they gave her the (suitably edited) version. Even that had been such that she had taken the hides from them almost _gleefully_, and returned them in a surprisingly short length of time in the form of a long black coat for Septimus, and a long brown one for Rufus. This coat didn't shred in the wind...

He didn't need to be in Wall until ten past nine and it was only seven o'clock. He soared on the thermals for a while, considering.

Stormhold... he hadn't had reason to go back, since he started his new job and new existence. He felt its call, though, and he wasn't sure that he could resist, when he would be going so close anyway...

Eventually, he tucked his wings in and dived, gaining speed as he travelled down through the sky, eventually coming through the low clouds that hung over the village of Wall. He located the Grange easily enough, then he turned towards the wall itself.

Invisible to the mortal eye, he swooped low over the guard's head and up over the forested rise. Stormhold lay before him... home, part of him sang, but it was a faint, mournful song. He flew on, looking about him, and soon came to places that he knew well... only... the land that lay beneath him was so familiar and yet so changed. Inns, houses, whole villages were gone, others sprung up in their place, that whole _road_ was new, and that river had changed its course... The extremity of the constant see-saw between recognition and the unknown was quite nauseating... he flew faster, his wings pounding the air desperately...

There, there was Mount Huon... it seemed the same, unchanged, looming up into the sky... Home, sang that little voice, and he shot eagerly towards it. He climbed up around it, in a long spiral. Unchanged. His heart pounded with relief.

Except right at the top, where the window to the king's bedchamber had been closed in with an elaborate grill... too late for Secundus, thought Septimus dryly, hovering in front of the grill as he eyed it with a certain amount of disfavour. He flew inside and looked around... clearly another king's room, furnishings, things, all was different, but that was only to be expected.

He made his way down to the main hall and alighted in the middle of the marble floor. The king sat on his throne. He was a fairly young man, somewhere between thirty and forty, with very dark brown hair and hazel eyes. Septimus eyed him, wondering what manner of descendant he was. Who would have taken the throne? he pondered, and felt a wave of utter, heart-stopping shock that he had never thought about it before. Hell had been rather distracting, he realised, and then his new existence... He had had no offspring, so far as he knew his brothers had none either, and Una... a witch's slave didn't get to have children. He couldn't even remember who would have been his closest relative...

How have I never thought about this? he wondered. I have been busy, he thought. And it just doesn't seem so important any more. Things had been so good... the quiet times in the peaceful roost with the others, balanced by the thrill and excitement of the chase when he went out to hunt demons... Prince Septimus they still called him, but sometimes he wondered who he now was...

But standing here, in the hall, where he had stood so often in his life, it did seem important. He looked at the king again.

He was holding council with the six other men who sat around the throne. Two were fair haired, four dark. They talked easily together, no undue formality between them.

Septimus's eyes were drawn up, above the throne, to the family mural his father had had painted across the wall. The eighty-first king of Stormhold stared down from the top of the wall, with his children in a long arch below him, Primus, Secundus, Tertius, Una in the middle, Quartus, Quintus, Sextus and lastly, a youthful Septimus on the far right hand side. Septimus stared up at the portraits for a while. If his feelings towards his father (and his brothers, for that matter) had been ambiguous in life, that was nothing to what they were now. Are you in hell, father? he inquired of the picture. That is where you would have had me... But Una, he looked at her portrait fondly. He looked forward to seeing her again, when he finally went in...

There were two more portraits underneath, filling up the remaining space; a young man who looked uncommonly like that love-struck Tristan who'd proved such a coward in the battle with the witches, and a fair haired woman. They must have been the next king and queen, thought Septimus, wondering who they were. He certainly didn't recognise them.

He started violently as a small hand tugged at the feathers of one wing and he spun around, almost knocking a small black haired boy over. The child stared up at him with youthful curiosity.

This child can see me, thought Septimus, perplexed and rather thrown.

"What are you?" he asked.

"Pwince Septimus," said the child, and for a moment Septimus wondered how the child knew who he was, before realising that he was answering the question.

"And who is your father?" he asked curiously.

"King Septimus," said the little child, pointing towards the throne. Ah. The seventh son of a seventh son. No wonder he could see angels. Septimus could feel it now, the magic of Faerie in the boy, he was full of it.

"And your grandfather?" he inquired.

"King Tertius," the child declared and then continued, getting into the swing of the thing, "and his father was King Tristan. And King Tristan's mother was Princess Una... and..."

"_What?_" snapped Septimus. Cold shock seized him; his very ears rang with it... _Tristan_? Cowardly, love-struck Tristan from the witches' hall? The worst ally ever given to man? _Him_? _King_? The spineless, pathetic, worthless...

_Una_? He thought suddenly. Una's _son_? The cold seemed to be draining downwards from the tip of his head towards his feet, replaced by a prickling, burning heat... Una's son. I thought he was just afraid. I thought _she_ was just afraid... a witch's slave for so long, her spirit broken...

The boy's failure to assist him had quickly been driven from his mind, but even now his last living thought echoed through his mind, '_Una, why don't you help me..._'

She wasn't broken, he knew it then with utter certainty. She was a daughter of Stormhold and she could have tried... She chose. She chose not to. She chose her son...

It hurt. It hurt more than he could have imagined it would. Even though a little rational voice in his head told him how understandable it was, that he would most likely have slain Tristan had he perceived him as a threat, that any mother would have done the same; his heart screamed in pain and anger. She was the only relative he had loved, the only friend he had ever had, and she had betrayed him, left him to die, gasping his life out in the throes of a witch's filthy spell... he swallowed hard, and realised that the child... his great, great, great nephew... was staring up at him with a certain amount of trepidation.

With a considerable effort, he eased the black frown slightly, and the child relaxed.

"Are you going to be king one day?" he asked the child, largely by way of small talk, but also with some faint interest in whether this small name-sake of his had what it took.

The boy looked back at him, hazel eyes wide,

"Why, only if father picks me," he said innocently.

Septimus stiffened.

"What?" he snapped.

"If father picks me," said the child, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. "King Tristan picked King Tertius, who picked my father, who'll pick one of us. That's how it works," he added.

"No," snapped Septimus, "that's not how it works. Whichever of you is left alive takes the throne."

The boy shook his head patiently.

"'Course not," he declared. "In the old days there was a barbaric custom like that, but that was hundreds of years ago." He pointed to the group on the dais, "My uncles are all fine!"

Septimus stared at them, his gaze wild. The king patted the adjacent brother on the arm, they all laughed together. Something huge filled his chest. It's anger, he told himself, it's anger at this stupid, feeble system... But he'd been to the 'self' lessons like all the other new acting angels (and hated them). Still, he'd learnt all the stuff on self-knowledge and self-control and self-discipline and was unfortunately all too aware that the feeling in his chest was jealousy, pure and simple. Pure, at any rate. Everything was changed, here...

"That's ridiculous," he snarled, seizing the boy by the front of his jacket and lifting him into the air. "Are you really just going to sit around and wait for your father to _pick_ one of you? Are you going to sit around for the rest of your life smiling and nodding to one of your brothers? Are you a _prince of Stormhold_?" He gave the boy a little shake. The child's eyes were wide again and he gasped suddenly.

"I know you!" he exclaimed, "let me _go_!"

Septimus realised that the king and his brothers were on their feet and half way to them.

"Septimus," cried King Septimus the sixth, "Septimus, what's happening? Is it the magic again?"

Septimus swore viciously and deposited the child back on the floor. The king ran and picked him up.

"It's not the magic," the boy protested, "it's the funny man with the black wings..."

"With the... black _wings_!" echoed the king and his son nodded firmly and before Septimus had realised his intention, he had pointed up to the right hand side of the mural with a very emphatic hand.

"That man," he declared, "Prince Septimus the seventh. He's _there_," he stretched out his finger straight towards Septimus. "He got angry when I told him about the new ways."

It was doubtful that the king heard this last bit of information, since upon hearing the words 'Prince Septimus the seventh' he was already drawing his sword and holding it out defensively.

"Whatever you are, you stay away from my son," he exclaimed defiantly to thin air.

Septimus stepped right up to him, the sword passing through him like so much mist.

"Nincompoop!" he snarled into the king's earnest face, and then reflected that his vocabulary had taken a downward turn since he started his new job...

Little Prince Septimus the ninth giggled, but Septimus did not wait for the king to be told why. He sprang into the air and flew away.

Everything was changed. It was not home any more. Anger and pain and confusion stormed through him and he beat his wings ferociously, driving himself to greater and greater speeds...

The demon on baby-snatching detail had just lifted the baby's soul from the cot when he looked up and saw the Angel of Retribution swooping down on him. His lips moved with a silent, but heartfelt, _uh-oh_. That was not an Angel of Retribution in a remotely good mood...

As it turned out, _uh-oh_ didn't really cover it...

Septimus alighted in the meadow before the pearly gates. He handed off the baby's soul to the waiting nursery angel, then advanced towards the desk. Archangel Pete eyed him curiously. He was crimson from head to toe; demon blood, all of it. Whatever had driven him during that evening's work was gone, though, leaving his eyes dull and tired.

"Can I help you, Septimus?" he asked.

Septimus poked at the grass for a while with his sword. Finally he knelt and wiped it in the grass, cleaning it thoroughly before sliding it back into its sheath.

"I was just wondering," he replied at last. "How things are adding up?"

"Oh, you evened things up months ago," replied the archangel, without even glancing at the mighty tome before him. "I thought you were never going to ask."

Septimus blinked.

"Oh," he said softly.

"You can go in now," said Pete, waving a hand invitingly towards the gates.

Septimus eyed them for a moment, fingering the hilt of his sword. Eventually Pete took pity on him, and pointed out,

"You can go in and just look, you know. You don't forfeit your position as an Angel of Retribution just for stepping foot in heaven! Only if you got to live there."

"Oh," murmured Septimus again, even more tiredly, and finally stepped forward. The gates opened before him and he leapt into the air and flew through them.

Heaven looked a lot like Stormhold as he remembered it, he thought, gazing around as he flew. There were deep forests, high mountains, rolling hills. It was beautiful. A herd of wild ponies threw up their heads and raced along, keeping pace with him for a while as he flew over wild moorland.

Finally he saw a vaguely Stormholdian castle, and swooped down to land on the roof. A man stood there, looking out. Hearing a noise, he turned, and Septimus stiffened in sheer shock...

"_Primus_?"

The man leapt backwards so violently that he tripped over the rampart and fell... Almost without thinking Septimus sprang aloft and dived, catching him by the ankle half way down the side of the keep. He flew back to the rooftop and deposited his brother in a heap. Primus scrambled to his feet with a decided lack of elegance.

"Septimus! What the hell are you?" he gasped, "You're a demon, aren't you? You're going to kill me..." and without waiting for a response he fled down the stairs.

Septimus swooped into the hall ahead of him and landed in front of him.

"Still not big on brain, are you?" he sneered. "_You're_ the one who just fell off the roof, and I don't know _why_ I bothered since you can't die again, but I _did_ catch you, you _nitwit_." He cringed at his last word. He blamed Pete. But he was bothered by how angry Primus's response had made him. Then he noticed who else was in the hall...

"_Septimus?_" echoed Tertius, Quartus, Quintus and Sextus in unison.

Septimus groaned and shut his eyes for a moment. But they were all still there when he opened them again.

"He's a demon," babbled Primus, "He just tried to throw me off the roof..."

Septimus unfurled his wings rather savagely. The small ones he'd started off with had grown nicely, and his wingspan was impressive...

"You blithering idiot," he told Primus. "Haven't you been here long enough to recognise an angel from a demon? Do these look scaly? Leathery? Bald! Do they?" He beat his wings vigorously in time with his words, almost blowing his now-huddled brothers to the ground.

"Don't kill us!" pleaded Quintus. Tertius's eyes rolled up and he fell down in a heap on the floor. Primus made a supreme effort and took a quarter of a step forward,

"I'm going to call the angelic guard!" he threatened.

Septimus's wings drooped and he stared at them in disbelief.

"You're dead," he stated. "You're all dead. _We're_ all dead. I already killed three of you! I don't need to do it again. Can't you understand that?"

"You're a demon and you've come from hell specially to hurt us," said Primus, his jaw jutting out stubbornly. "How could you possibly belong anywhere else?"

Septimus's wings drooped entirely. Any vague, unarticulated (and suppressed) thoughts of finding peace and forgiveness with his brothers slipped away. They seemed to have lost their grasp on what reason they had had to begin with...

He had just turned to fly out of the window when a rather strangled voice behind him said,

"_Septimus_?"

He swung around and looked into his sister's eyes. She stepped forward, delight in her eyes, "Septimus!" she repeated, laughing, and held out her arms as if to embrace him. But he drew away from her.

'_Una, why don't you help me...'_

It echoed through his mind.

"Septimus?" she said. "What's wrong?" He didn't reply, so she tried to ignore his silence, and went on, "Look at you, you do look fine! An angel, who would have thought it? What kind are you? Not one of the angelic guard, you've no uniform... let me think, you're all bloody, you're not a retribution angel, are you?" Her voice grew increasingly uneasy as he still did not reply.

"He's a demon, Una," said Primus urgently.

Septimus shot him an irritated look,

"Retribution angel, Una," he confirmed tersely.

"I'm sure it suits you," said Una nervously, then more bluntly, "What _is_ it, Septimus?"

"How's Tristan?" asked Septimus coldly.

"Tristan?" repeated Una, "Why, fine, I mean, he's dead now, of course, but he's up here and it's quite alright, you know that, you died yourself... oh..." her hand went to her mouth.

He faced her, staring into her eyes.

"Were you sorry?" he demanded.

"Septimus..." she replied, "it was a long time ago... I _was_ sorry," she said after a moment. "But mostly," she added, softly and with painful honesty, "I was just relieved... so relieved..."

Septimus turned away, his heart aching as though someone had planted a poisoned dagger in it. If there was any forgiveness to be found in his family it was not something that was going to come quickly. And there was no way he was moving here just yet... He longed for his cool, dim roost, for his friends...

His _friends_? He had friends?

He was in the air in an instant, and gone.

He went first to his legion's pool and dived in, coat and all, to wash off the demon blood. It seemed strange to be entering the wall from the heaven side. But very satisfying, he thought, as he passed through the Heaven door into his own roost. He thought that he could hear a surprising number of wings from his nesting hall but walked in unsuspectingly.

"HAPPY ANNIVERSARY SEPTIMUS!" The chorus near deafened him and he stared around in shock. Half the legion seemed to be present, crammed onto nest spaces and covering the floor...

"What?" he exclaimed.

"You've been with us a year," said Rufus, clapping him on the back. "It's your death day, you know..."

"No, it's not," remarked Septimus rather distractedly, "I spent a few days in hell..."

"Oh," said the russet winged angel, "well, we're not counting that. It's the day you received your wings, anyway. _Anyway_," he repeated more briskly, "come along." He hustled Septimus forward and the flock parted to reveal a huge cake. Septimus stared at it; he was in mild shock,

"I get a _cake_?" he said. "Who died and made me king?"

They laughed, and soon the cake was cut and everyone was talking and joking. Septimus stood and grimaced polite smiles at people, still dazed.

An angel by the door coughed sharply,

"Archangel," he announced, and a respectful silence instantly fell and everyone politely furled their wings.

It was Pete. He wandered in, his wings looking scruffier then ever, absently trailing his flaming sword. Seeing an umbrella-stand by the door, he deposited it there. Septimus hadn't yet managed to work out why every nesting hall had an umbrella stand; there was no kind of angel that needed, or indeed, used, an umbrella. This being the nesting hall of retribution and a few death angels the stand was full of old forgotten swords and the odd scythe that wouldn't conveniently fit in a nest space, so the archangel's sword fitted right in.

"I heard the commotion," Pete said, "and came to see what was going on."

Rufus snorted,

"Pete, you're an archangel, you pre-cognate, that really is the worst excuse in heaven..."

Other than a slight smile, Pete ignored this.

"Septimus's bash, I take it? May I join you?"

Everyone looked at Septimus, who realised that he was now in charge.

"Of course," he said hastily.

Later, he sat up in the rafters, with a large plate of cake, looking down at the host of angels. All there because of him. They had come because they liked him and wished him well... He could just get used to this new family of his, he thought. If he'd had even the slightest lingering doubt about where he belonged, it had been swept away.

Rufus alighted on the beam and flopped against the opposite support.

"Hiding?" he asked lightly.

"It's a little overwhelming," confessed Septimus. "But I'm having fun, don't worry," he added hastily.

Selene landed on the next beam along and offered him a plate of cake.

"I've got more than enough," he told her. "You have it."

So she perched there and picked at it daintily.

"You two are... my friends, right?" Septimus asked after a while.

Rufus looked faintly indignant,

"I should jolly well think so," he declared. "What did you think we were?"

But Selene smiled gently at him, as though she understood why he had asked. Then she ruffled her wings, settling them more comfortably, and a single feather came loose and danced in the air. Rufus and Septimus eyed her inquiringly.

"Septimus," she said, so he got up and carefully, carefully, like catching the most delicate of flowers, caught it in his hands.

"Got it," he said, when it was secured.

"Make a wish then," urged Rufus.

So Septimus did.


	3. 2: Light and Doubt

Light and Doubt (Septimus in Heaven 2)

_**Light and Doubt (Septimus in Heaven 2)**_

Darkness. Everything had gone away. Even thought.

Then it came back again. He became aware that he was lying down. Lying in softness. It was a little bit damp. Darkness still. An eerie silence.

He opened his eyes. Sky blue blinded him. Squinting more cautiously he saw a branch, waving above him. He rolled over, and found himself on hands and knees in something that was not quite moss, not quite... cloud? Weird. He sat for a moment, and looked around him. The... cloud meadow substance... stretched away in front of him, to an abrupt edge. A cloud edge. He looked behind him. A wood. A wood of fat deciduous trees, spaced at rather regular intervals. But not in lines. He almost got the feeling, looking at them, that could he have seen them from above, they might have formed some recognisable pattern. He sat on the edge of this wood, staring across the meadow that ended in open sky.

How had he come here, and what had become of the stone and the star? The memories came then, and with them a terrible, choking panic. Dead. He was dead. He was really, truly dead. His crimes listed themselves to him with terrible clarity, and he looked around quickly, but no demons of eternal punishment approached him. He pushed the panic down and took stock. Cloud. Sky. Meadow. Trees.

There _had_ to have been a mistake.

He doubted that the powers that ordered the netherworld could remain confused for long, so he thought that he might as well enjoy it while he could. Such as it was to enjoy, he thought doubtfully. Soft green (damp) fluff and round little trees were not his idea of enjoyment. Ignoring the nagging tiredness that tugged at him, he rose and crossed the meadow. Standing at the edge, he looked out.

Sky. Lots of sky. He looked down. Oh. Flames. Lots of flames. Suddenly the damp green cloud and fat trees looked very pleasant indeed.

He heard someone behind him, but before he could turn, two hands planted themselves in the small of his back and shoved viciously. He fell towards those licking tongues of flame, a scream of terrible anticipation torn from his throat.

And landed, on his back, in soft cloud meadow substance, with a tree branch waving above him. He lay for a moment, breathing rather too fast, collecting himself. Then he rolled onto his feet, stood, and looked around.

Secundus stood by the cloud edge, looking down. He waved his hands around like a child and crowed,

"I got Septimus! I got Septimus!"

Septimus stared in disbelief as he proceeded to do a little dance, all the time chanting,

"I. Got. Sept-i-mus. I. Got. Sept-i-mus."

Dead he might be, but some things were just too much. Septimus darted across the meadow on silent feet, and pushed Secundus over the edge. He listened to his brother's scream with great satisfaction.

He felt regret, but no surprise, when Secundus suddenly appeared again by the edge of the wood, and leapt to his feet, looking around wildly.

"We're dead, cretin," Septimus sneered, when his brother's gaze finally fixed on him. "Kill away, I'll just come back."

Secundus combined a look of wariness with one of great disappointment at seeing Septimus again, and prowled off along the wood line Unless Septimus missed his guess, he hoped to double back and try to catch Septimus' unawares the next time he was near the edge. What an idiot! thought Septimus, and blinked as Tertius suddenly appeared in front of him, holding out a tray on which stood two cups.

"Drink, Septimus?" he said in a tone of simpering pleasantry.

Septimus seized the nearest cup and sniffed it with an expert nose.

"I'd have thought even you would have had more sense," he snarled, knocking the tray from Tertius' hands and catching him by the scruff of his jacket. He spun the struggling prince around and dropped him with well-placed knee in the back. Yanking his head back by the hair, he drove a heel into Tertius' belly and poured the contents of the cup down his open mouth, ignoring his gasping and spluttering. Then he released him and stepped back, watching as Tertius choked, turned a very funny colour, and pitched forward on his face. But he knew that he would get up again and strode away impatiently, in among the trees.

Again there was a movement behind him. He spun around, but he caught only the briefest glimpse of Quintus before something slammed painfully into his head and after a moment of agonised mental disorientation, he found himself lying under that waving branch again.

"That's not fair!" he snapped, leaping to his feet and facing his fifth brother. "You were asleep when I did it! You never felt a thing."

But Quintus ignored his angry protest, and ran over to where Quartus stood, singing,

"I got Septimus, I got Septimus."

He went on singing this until Quartus whacked him over the head with a nasty, studded club, and took over his brother's song,

"I got Quintus, I got _Quintus_..."

Septimus was beginning to feel decidedly confused. What sort of place was this?

Primus suddenly stood before him.

"What are you doing here?" the first born demanded. "You shouldn't be here. How could you possibly be here? There must have been some mistake..."

Hearing what he was already all too aware of from Primus's sanctimonious lips was too much. The flames danced before his mind and Septimus proceeded to sheath his dagger in Primus's ribcage. He couldn't restrain a smile of some satisfaction as his brother dropped to the ground, a look of astonishment on his priggish face. How long had he wanted to do that!

Then something liquid splashed over him, and he had just time to smell lamp oil, then he was afire. He rolled desperately on the damp cloud top, but to no avail...

But eventually the agony ended, and he stared up at the branch again. He sat up and eyed the meadow. Sextus was now skipping in wide circles, laughing to himself. Septimus was about to go and knife him too, when Secundus ran Sextus through with great glee.

Okaaaaaaay, thought the seventh prince. This was a very strange place. Better than the flames, so he was not complaining, but... How long were his brothers going to keep this up for?

Quintus hit him again with the axe. He woke cursing, ran Quintus down in the wood and stabbed him, three times, just for good effect. Good effect, that was a joke, he thought. Quintus was back already, trying to sneak up on Primus, who was looking very jumpy...

Sextus was approaching him again, a gleeful look in his eyes, a bucket in one hand, and a lit torch in the other. Septimus stood.

"Look, Sextus," he said, impulsively and with unusual frankness, "that did actually really hurt. I'm sorry I did that to you. I could have made it easier."

Sextus' only reaction was to throw the bucket of oil over him, so Septimus turned and bolted, cursing.

He'd just _apologised_? What was wrong with him?

You died, a tiny voice whispered in his mind. And it really hurt. So now you begin to appreciate what you did to _them_.

He didn't like that little voice. He didn't like it at all. So he went and stabbed Secundus, Quartus and Primus in quick succession. But it did little to relieve his feelings, and there was Sextus again with the torch...

He finally lost his sixth brother again and sat down under a tree. He watched his brothers running around the meadow, gleefully murdering one another over and over and over again...

Don't they get it? he thought. We're all dead. It's over. There's no crown, no throne, no stone. It's over. Why should we do this any more?

Don't you enjoy it? the little voice asked him.

Not any more, he thought, disturbed by this realisation. There's no purpose to it. And I've been too close, now, to death, to deal it out and feel nothing at all...

He shied away from that truth. That he, Septimus the pitiless, should no longer feel that cold satisfaction in taking another's life and knowing that he had kept his own... Perhaps because he _hadn't_ kept his own...

He jerked to his feet and plunged back into the ridiculous fray, taking out Tertius, Quartus and pesky little Sextus before Secundus managed to push him from the cloud top again.

He felt so tired, he thought, sitting up under his tree again. He should have liked to take a nap; embarrassing, but true. Perhaps this tiredness was because he shouldn't really be there... Come to that, perhaps he should take a nap while he still could. When they sent him down to those flames, he might never rest again. Cold fear prickled down his spine at the thought. All that killing was no longer looking quite so clever...

He lay down and closed his eyes, but after being axed five times by Quintus, clubbed four times by Quartus, run through twice by Secundus, and finally, set on fire again by Sextus, he gave up, and walked along the wood line, trying to get away from his murderous siblings. But every time he turned a corner, there they were again, there was the meadow... He headed off through the wood, but every time he reached the wood line, there they were before him... there was no escape.

The place was worming into his mind, he thought uneasily. Surely these thoughts were not his? Could not be his, unless prompted by some exterior source... Surely... To feel sorry was not something he was familiar, or comfortable, with... He was beginning to regret it all, even hitting Quintus with that axe, and he had been asleep, and known nothing about it...

I have to get out of here, he thought. But though his thoughts were more troubling than ever, he disdained to go and join in another round of slaughter the prince. He'd never engaged in an exercise quite so meaningless, quite so appallingly futile. There's no stone, he thought. Tristan has it now.

He became aware of two tall white beings, strolling on a distant hillock, watching them. He watched them back for a while, but they didn't do anything, and his thoughts sucked him back in...

"What about that lot?" one angel asked the other. "Any hope for them?"

"Precious little," said the other angel, with a rather sad little snort.

"What about that one?" asked the first angel, indicating the dark figure that now paced up and down as for away from his brothers as he could get.

"That one... perhaps. Just possibly." said the second angel. "But I wouldn't pause your wing beats waiting."

Septimus writhed in his own mind. He twisted, fled the feelings of sorrow and guilt, but he couldn't run far enough, justify sufficiently. And the waiting, the waiting was getting to him. Any moment, one of those tall white figures would be beside him, would tell him that there had been a mistake. He wasn't sure if the waiting was worse than the flames, but it was bad. And his thoughts were almost worse. Would he be himself again, down below, or would the pain make him regret his living actions more and more, for all eternity? The thought brought bile to his throat, and he swallowed hard.

You deserve it, that little voice whispered.

Lamp oil poured over him again, and he caught fire with a soft whoof...

"I said I was sorry!" he yelled at Sextus' retreating back when he woke again. He was beginning to wonder if this place really was better than the other. He was not in _constant_ pain, it was true, but his brothers' pathetic little game was going to drive him stark raving mad!

He slipped into the woods, about as far as he could go before he would see a new wood line on the horizon, then he heaped the soggy meadow stuff up as much as he could to make a little hidden dell, and he lay down in that. He sighed in contentment. Peace and quiet at last. He closed his eyes.

And woke burning again...

He sat up back on the wood line and there was Secundus, sword raised to strike... he dived forward, pushing the sword aside and knocking his brother to the floor. He raised his own dagger...

Secundus held his hands in front of his face, batting at Septimus, making a high panic noise, almost a whimper. Septimus stared down at him, frozen, dagger uplifted...

"You were about to stick your sword in me," he said coldly. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't stick my dagger in _you_."

And Secundus started crying,

"_Please_, Septimus..." he begged, "I don't want to die... I don't want to die..."

Septimus eyed him warily,

"You're already dead," he said. "Don't you understand that?"

"But I d...don't _want_ to diiiiiiiie!" wailed Secundus.

Neither did I, thought Septimus. But here I am. At least I know I'm dead. Or will admit it to myself. I think this is what a mind wizard would called denial, he reflected, looking down at his sobbing brother. He sheathed his dagger and stood, watching his brother scramble away.

"Septimus didn't stab me!" exclaimed Secundus to anyone who would listen, wandering around the meadow aimlessly. "_Septimus_ didn't stab me! Septimus didn't stab me..."

"He didn't?" asked Primus, "Odd!"

And he ran Secundus through.

Septimus had headed into the wood again. Tertius followed him, clutching his tray.

"Drink, Septimus?" he said.

"No," retorted Septimus brusquely. Tertius followed him still.

"Drink? Septimus? Drink?" he persisted. Septimus tripped him and walked on, but he was beside him again immediately.

"Have a drink, Septimus? I made it specially for you. Do have one?"

Septimus was beginning to feel as though something was going to explode. Probably his head. He halted and spun around, suddenly seized by a rather morbid curiosity.

"Thank you, Tertius," he said sardonically, plucking a cup from the tray and draining it in one draught. Tertius stared at him, his mouth falling open...

No, thought Septimus, what he had done to Tertius wasn't too pleasant either... But the fat little nuisance had gone away, so he got up and went once more into the wood, but his dell was gone. He set to work on a new one and lay down. But he could still hear his brothers screaming in pain and laughing in triumph. It seemed like a silly game to him, but to them, he was beginning to realise, it was deadly serious.

How come they don't feel so tired? he wondered. This place would be alright, if only one could have a bit of peace and quiet long enough to enjoy it... Well, it _was_ a bit damp, he thought, but considering what lay below, he hoped that the coming angel was long delayed.

A noise woke him, and he opened his eyes. And groaned.

His brothers stood around him. Primus and Secundus had their swords out, Tertius balanced his tray, Quartus still clutched his nasty club, Quintus his axe, and Sextus his oil and torch. They looked at him as starving wolves eye a sick pack member.

He got to his feet, slowly. He was wary of Sextus and his oil, the others he did not fear.

"Look, you lot," he snapped, furious at being disturbed yet again. "I'm sorry I killed you, I'm more sorry I had to, but it's done, we're all dead, so will you just leave me the hell alone! If you want to kill each _other_, _fine_..."

He didn't get to finish, because they all dived on him at once. He wasn't sure whose sword reached his heart first, but he was gone before Sextus could light the oil.

He leant against his tree, fuming. It was impossible. He would go mad. He stood abruptly, seized by what he feared was a rather rash determination. But just then he didn't care, he was going to do it anyway, and if he regretted it forever, well, he was likely to be regretting rather a lot of things for ever, so one more wouldn't make much difference...

He strode away from his brothers, towards the two white figures that still wandered that far hillock. He was not all that surprised when he managed to reach it without the meadow reappearing before him. His stride slowed as he approached. The figures were very tall and very white... he felt intimidated. But he squared his shoulders and raised his chin. He was a prince of Stormhold and though he might be going to his damnation he would not cower.

"Yes?" said one of the angels gently when he reached them. He could not see their faces, they were too bright.

Septimus swallowed, feeling sweat break out on his forehead. His stomach felt cold as ice. This no longer seemed such a good idea... But he swallowed again and licked suddenly dry lips,

"I think... I think there may have been a mistake," he said at last, and his voice almost didn't shake.

The angels appeared to exchange a look, for their heads tilted towards one another. He felt them smile.

"Yes," one replied. "I think there has."

Septimus bit his lip and fought back fear, bracing himself...

The world dissolved.

Darkness. Everything had gone away. Even thought.

Then it came back again. He became aware that he was lying down. Lying on something firm, softness tickling his cheek. He heard the sound of birds singing, the rush of wind through trees.

He opened his eyes. He lay in a forest clearing, moss beneath him. He sat up abruptly, groping for memory...

This forest looked rather like Stormhold... had that strange cloud meadow place been a dream? But... unfortunately he still remembered dying, remembered it with indelible clarity. He didn't think any of it had been a dream.

A tall, white figure stood by the clearing. Septimus got up and went over to it. He could see the angel's face now, and it looked down at him with mild-tempered gravity.

"Excuse me," he said, sufficiently awed to be polite, "Could you tell me where I am?"

"You are where you are supposed to be," answered the angel. "Just like everyone else."

"Is this the place of damnation, then?" asked Septimus, puzzled but very skeptical. He had seen that place, he was sure, and it was not here.

The angel smiled a tiny smile.

"It is not," it stated quietly.

"Then where?" questioned Septimus. "I was in that other place, if I haven't gone down, where have I gone?"

"You have gone up," said the angel.

Septimus contemplated this absurd statement for a while.

"I thought I was up before," he remarked, eventually. In the light of the angel's remark about being where he was 'supposed to be' he somehow didn't feel like objecting too hard. The angel was that awe-inspiring.

"You were not up." replied the angel. "And not down. Call in the winnowing ground, if you like. A soul can suppress no part of itself, there, not forever."

He'd been in the middle, Septimus realised. He'd never thought to look up... He remembered his brothers, trapped in their terrible cycle of death and triumph.

"What about them?" he asked. The angel knew who he meant.

"Perhaps one day," the angel replied, "some of them might find their way up. And some of them might find their way down. No one stays in the winnowing ground for all time."

Septimus swallowed.

"How did _I_?" he asked. "How did _I_ find my way _up_?"

The angel smiled a rather secret little smile.

"You apologised. And you were humble," he said softly. "You accepted your guilt and you sought justice. And so found mercy."

Septimus considered this. Him, _humble_? But he had done all those things, _technically_, he supposed. But his motives hadn't been very pure. His brothers were simply driving him crazy and he couldn't stand the waiting...

"Keep telling yourself that," said the angel, and this time its smile was very close to mocking. And then it was gone.

Septimus stared at the place where it had been for a while, then shook that parting shot from his mind. A fine black stallion had wandered from the wood, and there was a whole realm to explore. He improvised a bit-less bridle from some nearby vines and sprung onto the creature's bare back. He turned its head to where distant mountain peaks peeped through the trees and kicked it to a gallop. His sword hung at his side, his daggers nestled in their many homes and this was clearly an immense place...

There might even be something to slay, he thought.


	4. 3: Purgation

Purgation (Septimus in Heaven 3)

_**Purgation (Septimus in Heaven 3)**_

Septimus was choking. His mouth was full with salty copper, not the mere taste of blood, but blood itself, filling his mouth. He spat it out, and he coughed and more took its place. He spat that out, and yet more came as the wrenching coughs shook him, convulsing his entire body.

How long had he been doing this? He felt so weak. The pain was appalling

Where was he? He must find out where he was. He levered his eyelids up and half closed them again as brightness struck them. He concentrated on looking gradually... a few inches at a time...

There was canvas. Brown canvas? No, that was dried blood. His blood? He lay in the blood, he could feel it, hot and damp around him, filling the canvas sling...

Then there were poles. At the top of the canvas were poles. Wooden? The canvas was stitched around them. It was a stretcher... the identification floated back to him from his life, from countless battlefields, battle camps...

Beyond that? Two men carrying the stretcher. They looked tired and grumpy and none too clean. Like someone had vomited blood all over them... Oh.

They were moving along a narrow walkway of cloud... he waited for a pause in the coughing and pulled himself up with agonising effort, peeping over the stretcher's edge. He looked down and his hands clenched around the pole, eyes widening.

Below them was a mighty pit in the clouds and in the earth below and flames burned in it, licking up the sides... On a cloud just below lay row upon row of stretchers, a pale, lifeless form lay on each one... A number of men were engaged in bearing each stretcher to the edge and tipping the body from it... the bodies fell like rain, down, down to the flames below, and as they reached them, they came alive again, twisting in pain, screaming... and some sort of beautiful pearlescent white mist came from their burning bodies like steam, rising to mingle with the clouds...

Septimus vomited blood down into the pit as another spasm shook him, and slipped back into the stretcher's bloody embrace, convulsing and gripped with mortal terror. Where were they taking him? Not to that field of the dead, surely, he still lived, after a fashion... The one certain piece of knowledge that he had was that he was dead in the mortal world... this was the afterlife.

He shuddered and coughed helplessly. I mustn't die here, he thought desperately, if I do they'll throw me down to the flames. And then he felt a flash of anger, that even here, even here he could not rest. Still he must battle to survive...

The two men had reached a cloud and were calling to its inhabitants. After a brief exchange they looked at one another,

"Hell!" said the one holding the front end of the stretcher. "It's the wrong place, they don't know him."

The other man groaned.

"Let's take him back then," he said wearily. "We're wasting our time, anyway. He's a gonner for sure."

Septimus looked at the man who had made this pronouncement with narrowed eyes as they turned and started back across the cloud bridge. He was not a gonner. He could not be a gonner. He would not let himself be. But he coughed and coughed and could not stop.

By the time they laid the stretcher down on another cloud top he had sunk deep into near unthinking misery. The agony was appalling and he felt utterly alone, the men did not care if he lived or died. He'd rarely sought comfort in his life but he'd never known terror or pain like this... it consumed him.

But the setting down of the stretcher drew him back into awareness and he tried to look around... he lay in a field of stretchers but the occupants still moved and no one seemed to be throwing them from the cloud. The two men were reporting to the angel who stood nearby,

"They didn't know him," one complained.

"All right, cotton-wool-in-the-ears," said the angel rather tiredly. And it turned to give orders to other pairs of men, and other stretchers were picked up and borne away.

Septimus still coughed. He looked at his arms in horror, they had not been that frail before... he was coughing his very flesh away, he realised, and his life with it. At this rate he would not live much longer. He fought the coughs, with furious determination, struggling to suppress them, to hold them back, to hold his precious blood inside him...

The angel noticed his efforts and gave him a gentle smile. Its white wings swished spotless, despite the blood and sickness that surrounded it.

"I wouldn't do that, if I were you," it advised him sadly.

Septimus stared up at it, eyes narrowed in pain and anger and distress,

"How should I _possibly_ know what I should _do_?" he gasped between the tightly suppressed shudders that shook him.

"It has to come out," the angel told him, then eyeing Septimus's set teeth and wild gaze, it added, "there's some fight in you, isn't there? Let's see then..." It stared into Septimus's eyes with twin orbs like molten silver. "Prince Septimus of Stormhold," it said, and Septimus had better things to worry about than how a supernatural being knew his name. The angel turned to the waiting men and spoke briefly to them, Septimus's concentration was slipping as the convulsions overcame him again and blood gushed forth once more.

"What's the point?" one of the men was demanding. "He's never going to make it!"

"Make it or not, all souls have the right to be with their loved ones," the angel said, steel in its voice. "Take him."

The men ducked their heads and hastened to obey. They set off along an even narrower cloud path that twisted and turned and rose and fell. The stretcher tipped dangerously as they went and Septimus slid in his pool of blood perilously close to falling from it altogether. The fiery pit was still below them and he wrapped his feeble fingers around the poles and hung on as tightly as he could... which was barely tightly enough, so wasted were his gaunt fingers now, but fear dragged every last modicum of strength from him...

And still he coughed.

Eventually the path flattened and his clutching became unnecessary and fortunately so, for his strength was exhausted. He lay helpless in the stretcher's depths... he would drown soon, he realised, appalled, for the blood was not draining away, but filling the sling, creeping higher and higher; already it covered his neck, lapping against his chin... He was too weak to sit up out of it... he snarled defiance at the crimson menace, but even that came out a feeble hiss.

After the angel's advice, he did not dare to try and hold the coughs back even though he could feel his life leaving him in the flow of blood. His limbs were becoming mere bones covered with skin... and there was nothing he could do... The stretcher tilted and he got a good look down into the pit... His nostrils flared as he fought back a stab of pure heart-stopping panic, ruthlessly smothering the sob that tried to rise in his throat and letting more blood pour out instead.

I must not die, he thought. I must not die. I must not die. He clung to that as half-conscious misery tried to claim him again. It was all he could cling to and all he could do and it was nothing. I must not die. I must not die. I must not die.

That was what he had always clung to...

Dimly, dimly, he was aware that the stretcher was being lain down again and a voice was speaking, a high, clear voice that was like balm to his ears,

"Where has he been? What has taken so long?" The men's mumbled reply was cut off by the rather haughty order, "no matter, lay him here..."

Hands lifted him from his bloody tomb and none too soon, for the blood was poised to spill into his mouth. He was laid down on something soft and wetness touched him. Not the hot sticky clinging of the blood, but the cool freshness of water... someone was washing him... It was only then that he realised that he was as naked as the day he was born. His hands flew weakly to his waist in a convulsive movement but his sword was not there, nor his daggers. He felt stripped and vulnerable.

Then something was being laid over his legs, drawn up over him. Something velvety and comforting. He dragged his eyes open again; even that was an effort now. It was a blue quilt, delicately stitched and beautiful. A figure crouched beside him, entering his field of vision. Una...

She fussed with the quilt, tucking it around his waist, though no higher, probably because he was still spewing blood everywhere.

"There," she said gently. "That's better."

It was she who had the wet cloth, and she wielded it once more, washing the fresh blood from his chin and chest. He frowned. It was wonderful to see her, to have her there but... there was something about it that worried him badly, if he could only think clearly enough to grasp what it was...

"I've been waiting and waiting," she was saying. "I thought they were never going to bring you, I've had time to make you a set of clothes and anything. All you've got to do is... get well so you need them..." she finished, her voice shaking slightly. He frowned up at her in between spasms. He had it now...

"Una," he gasped through his congested throat, "what... happened... I thought you... all right..."

She stroked his blood-matted hair back soothingly,

"Shss," she crooned. "It's alright, Septimus. Time moves differently here. I lived to be eighty-six and died in bed with my husband. My, ah, my purgation was on the short side, so here I am waiting for you. Don't worry about it."

Septimus's mind tried to tease at her words, tried to worry them, but could not. He was forced to take her word for it.

"Purgation?" he whispered eventually.

She looked faintly exasperated but seemed to conclude that he would not lie still and rest until he had at least some idea what was going on.

"All souls must undergo purgation when they die," she told him quietly. "It takes various semblances of physical distress, various ways in which the soul's wrongdoing leaves them. If there is enough good in them, they will... survive... it. If they do not... they are cast down into the pit where what goodness there is in them is burnt out of them by the flames and rises to mingle with the clouds of heaven which are made of that substance. But the true bare naked spark of the soul remains down in the pit for all time..."

Her voice had died away to almost nothing and she dabbed yet more energetically with the damp cloth. "So you must get well, brother," she told him softly, leaning to place a kiss on his damp and burning brow. "You must get well..."

Septimus agreed vaguely with that statement. He must. He must not die.

Now that he had some grasp of the situation he felt a little calmer. Still afraid but less achingly confused. And he was no longer alone. His sister was beside him, soothing him, washing him, speaking gently to him, an inconsequential stream of comfort-babble that flowed over him, occasionally entering his consciousness...

"Primus had the worst case of wind," Una was telling him. "It was actually really serious, who'd have believed it; _wind_! For Secundus it was diarrhea, very nasty. He very nearly didn't make it. But his mother nursed him, and he did. Tertius was nauseous, that wasn't too pretty either. Quartus had a severe cold, the way his nose ran! But he pulled through all right. Quintus had such a headache, a true migraine, I felt quite sorry for him. And Sextus a terrible fever. He was quite burning with it. But they all pulled through, even Secundus, so you can too... you're coughing a little less, I wonder if some spring water would do you good?"

She bent over him, examining him carefully. She looks just as when I last saw her, he thought vaguely, but that was another thing that was too much for his mind in its current condition.

"I'm going to the brook, Septimus," she told him, speaking very clearly this time to be sure he heard her. "You're doing well. I won't be long."

He didn't feel like he was doing well... but she adjusted the quilt a little and the little pillow that cushioned his head, and hastened away across the... glade, that was what it was, he thought. The soft stuff he lay in was not cloud top, it was moss... charming, really. But all thought of that left him as another spasm of coughing shook him.

He heard whispers...

"We'll get in trouble... we're not supposed to interfere!"

"It's all right for you! He didn't do anything to you!"

"Not for want of trying! I tell you, there'll be trouble..."

"Sissy..."

"Bowel boy..."

"Are you _really_ going to do this now?"

That last was Quintus's voice, Septimus suddenly realised. And the other two...

A line of furtive figures approached across the clearing. Secundus was in the lead, a very mean look on his face. Primus hung back, trailing along behind the others, still making faint sounds of protest. Quintus was right behind Secundus, and Sextus just behind him, Tertius peeping around _him_. Quartus strolled along after them, and when they had stopped and gathered around Septimus, he eased back until he was behind even Primus. The others paid him no heed, their attention fixed on their youngest brother.

"Well, well," said Secundus loftily and most unpleasantly, "I'm surprised they even bothered to bring you here. You'll be stiff and cold soon enough."

"And then you'll never be cold again!" sniggered Tertius, clearly convulsed with his own wit.

"I'm going to watch you _burn_," whispered Sextus hoarsely, his gaze scorchingly intent.

A variety of responses suggested themselves to Septimus's mind, even in his befuddled state, varying from witty put downs, to self-justifications to actual apologies, but his heart was not wholly behind any of them, so he decided to save his strength and said nothing at all.

"I hope you're afraid," Quintus hissed at him. "Because you aren't just going to go to sleep and never wake up, oh no...!" And he shot Secundus a look, "well, get a move on," he snapped, "if you insist on doing the honours..."

Secundus stuck his nose in the air in his most arrogant fashion and knelt beside Septimus, fastidiously trying to keep his knees out of the blood. I don't think I ever told him quite how good a target his throat makes when he does that, Septimus thought, wishing for just one little dagger. Then another fit of coughing seized him and the thought flew from his mind.

Secundus snatched the pillow from under Septimus's head, smiled down at him in the most appallingly smug way, and reached out to press it over his face. Hard. Septimus fought for breath, fought to get free, his wasted fingers scrabbling feebly against his brother's muscular arms... it was utterly hopeless, he could never hope to overpower him... and the coughs still shook him, indeed, it almost seemed that the harder he struggled the worse they became... He flailed desperately, but his strength failed him and his arms fell back on the ground. Desperate instinct made his body try and raise them again, but his mind caught himself... He was utterly exhausted and he couldn't afford to lose much more blood _at all_; now for a gamble, whether it was that of a wise man or a fool he did not yet know...

He forced himself to lie still, to not struggle, though he couldn't breathe and his head swam and his chest ached fiercely... if he had not been so desperately weak he probably couldn't have overpowered his instincts, but as it was he managed it. He lay still and quiet and the coughs died away. The pressure eased slightly and a little air reached him.

"Is he gone?" Tertius was asking in a tone of schoolboyish nervous excitement.

"Well, he's stopped struggling," observed Sextus in the tone of one pointing out the obvious.

"Oh, 'spose he must be dead then," said Tertius, and the others groaned at the slowness of his uptake.

The pillow was removed entirely, and Secundus peered down at him. Septimus, theorising that if struggling was bad, deceit was also, opened his eyes and smiled sweetly up at his brothers. The shocked appalled expressions on their faces would have made him laugh, had he had the strength.

"Die, you bastard!" yelled Secundus, and clamped the pillow over his face again. Septimus continued to lie still. It got easier with practise.

"Secundus! What are you _doing_?" That was Una's voice, horrified.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" retorted Secundus sarcastically.

There was the sound of rushing skirts and the pillow was torn from his face again. He drew in deep, grateful breaths and tried to pay attention to what was going on.

"How dare you!" Una was exclaiming. "You all got a fair chance, why shouldn't he?"

"He's a murderer," replied Secundus decidedly sanctimoniously. Una stared at him,

"_You_ can't talk!" she cried.

"No, you really can't,"' said Quartus dryly, from the back.

Secundus ignored him and made a very threatening movement towards Una.

"Out of the way, you silly wench," he commanded. "Let me finish the worthless worm."

"I shall not let you touch him!" declared Una defiantly.

Sextus scowled.

"Oh, we'll see about that," he said darkly, stepping forward.

Alone at the back, Quartus gave a little shrug of his shoulders and a tiny secret smile, as though to say, why not, and backed away, slipping off into the woods.

"Now, now," Primus was protesting, "Less threats to our dear sister, if you please..."

"If she chooses to defend him," responded Secundus is a very grandiose manner.

"She must reap the consequences," snarled Sextus, who was looking more than a little manic. They both stepped towards Una, who raised her fists determinedly.

Septimus did not like the way this was going.

"Una," he rasped, "It's not worth... you... hurt... let them... have... me..."

"Hell I will!" retorted Una, squaring her shoulders as the four brothers spread out around her and started to close in. Primus still dithered uselessly, calling for restraint. They sprang, and though Una fought like a wildcat, scratching and biting, in very short order she was pressed down on top of Septimus, with the four of them struggling to restrain her and drag her away...

"Just what is going on here?" said a calm, aloof voice that rang with authority. The brothers froze guiltily and Una surged up, pushing them away with some vigour.

"Mother!" she gasped furiously, "they were trying to interfere with Septimus's purgation!

A queen of Stormhold stood there, graceful and fair. Quartus stood just behind her, smirking slightly. The queen eyed the four brothers, who now stood looking guilty, frustrated and decidedly uncomfortable.

"This is a very serious offence you have committed," she said coolly. "You know all men, good or bad, undergo the same purgation. One has to wonder if your own purgations are truly complete, that you can behave in such a way."

The four brother exchanged wary glances. There was a long silence. Then Tertius suddenly clapped a hand to his mouth and bolted from the glade. Secundus stood with awkwardly crossed legs for a few moments, trying to pretend that nothing was wrong, then he blanched and fled with the look and gait of a man frantically seeking a bathroom. Sextus groaned and wiped his forehead, which was suddenly clammy with sweat, and Quintus clutched his own head, moaning. They staggered away together, leaning on one another. Primus remained, looking apprehensive, but when nothing happened, he finally snuck off. Quartus sauntered after him.

The queen joined Una at Septimus's side. He was dead white and his eyelids seemed to weigh several tons, but merciful ease gripped him...

"The coughing's stopped!" exclaimed Una triumphantly. "How did that happen, I wonder?

"No matter," said the queen, taking up the wet cloth and gently washing the last of the blood from her son. "It has stopped. He can rest safely now."

Septimus peered up at the woman who leant over him. She seemed vaguely familiar; he felt as though he should know her...

"Mother?" he whispered.

She stroked his tangled hair back from his face.

"Yes," she murmured soothingly. "I am your mother. But sleep now."

Septimus blinked up at Una. He wanted to sleep, wanted it more than anything, but he was afraid...

"Sleep, Septimus," Una said softly. "You're safe now. You can sleep. It will heal you."

So Septimus obediently let his eyelids fall and slipped into a deep healing slumber.

"He was lost in life," Una said quietly as they sat beside him. "I could not save him there."

"That was there," said the queen. "Here everyone has a fair chance. He will live, and recover, and be what he might have been, had life been kinder to him."

"He made it," said Una contentedly, tucking the quilt around his neck and replacing the pillow under his dark head.

Then the two women sat together, watching over the seventh prince of Stormhold as he slept.


End file.
